


Swallow It Down

by Pandir



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Dissociation, M/M, Power Imbalance, Sexual Coercion, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25858678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandir/pseuds/Pandir
Summary: "Ignacio”, Lalo’s voice is low against his neck. “Tell me what happens now."It's not a test, it’s not even a choice.Still, something inside Nacho is stretched thin, so thin it might give in any second as he whispers hoarsely: "You fuck me."
Relationships: Eduardo "Lalo" Salamanca/Ignacio "Nacho" Varga
Comments: 17
Kudos: 58
Collections: Bad Things Happen





	Swallow It Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rrismo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rrismo/gifts).



> Happy Birthday babe!! <3
> 
> Fill for the prompt "Dissociation" for the Bad Things Happen Bingo.

"And where do you think you're going, Ignacio?"

There's a slight lilt in Lalo’s voice that softens the edges of his words, but in the quiet of the living room, his low voice startles Nacho like a gunshot.

Nacho, who was busy cleaning up empty beer bottles and full ashtrays, stops in his tracks immediately.

It's long past midnight. After Lalo folded his cards and declared to the whole crew sitting around the poker table that it's getting late, Nacho thought he'd be alone by now. But apparently, everyone has taken the hint except for Lalo himself. Nacho turns to see him sitting on the leather couch, the side of his face illuminated by the light of the streetlamps falling in from the windows, one arm leaning on the armrest and his legs spread.

"What are you still doing here?" The words are out before Nacho can stop himself or really mask the tension in his tone.

Lalo’s dark eyes are pitch black in the artificial light. "What do you think?", he asks flatly, but there's a hint of amusement in his voice.

Under his unwavering stare, Nacho swallows, his throat suddenly dry. He should have seen it coming.

Ever since Lalo arrived, he was so preoccupied with keeping his cool and his cards close to his chest that Lalo's blatant flirting registered as just another way of trying to unnerve him. Really, he would have to be blind and deaf not to notice that Lalo has a certain interest in him. Still, Nacho decided to feign ignorance, thinking that Lalo was mostly trying to mess with him, and that if he didn’t respond to it, Lalo would drop it eventually.

Now, Nacho wishes he had seen the signs more clearly, or taken them more seriously. Maybe he could have avoided ending up like this - alone with Lalo in the middle of the night with both of them a little bit drunk. At least, he could have prepared himself, maybe chosen a different place, a different time--

"It's late”, Nacho says, trying to keep his voice as even as he possibly can. "I should hit the bed. Tomorrow--"

"Ah, don't worry about it”, Lalo interrupts him, and his tone is so jovial, it’s jarring. “It's alright! You can sleep in.” With a handwave, he gestures Nacho to come closer and smiles. “Come here.”

Nacho doesn’t move an inch. "Listen”, he has to clear his throat to keep his voice from faltering, “I really think-..."

"Come here", Lalo repeats, his voice low. There's still a smile on his lips, keeping his tone light, but his eyes that bore into Nacho's tell a different story. Lalo eyes him like a cat who has spotted a moth helplessly fluttering against the windowpane. Trapped, Nacho thinks, and his pulse is loud and thick in his veins.

"Look, we can do this whatever way you want.” Lalo leans back into the couch, and Nacho doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that this grants him a clear view of the gun in the holster at Lalo’s waistband. "It's really up to you." There's something in the low tone of his voice, in the ease with which he smiles as he says it, that makes the fine hairs on the back of Nacho's neck stand on end. "I will enjoy myself either way." 

It takes a moment for the words to settle like lead in Nacho’s guts. Lalo rises from the couch and closes in with measured steps, the blank look with which he regards him impossible to read.

Nacho tries his hardest to hold his gaze, to not back away. His palms are sweaty. For a second, Nacho thinks of running. But immediately, his mind conjures the image of himself, lying on his back and bleeding where his skull has hit the floor, drawing shallow breaths as Lalo above him regards him with the same amused twinkle in his eye while the cold, hard barrel of Lalo's gun presses into the softness of his abdomen.

Nacho remains exactly where he is, his jaw clenched tightly. If he’s learned anything dealing with the Salamancas it's that it’s crucial to show no fear. Don't blink, don’t turn your back. Keep your mouth shut. And maybe you'll survive.

He swallows hard, trying to force down his fight-or-flight response.

Lalo stops right in front of him, and as Nacho stares up at him, he half expects to feel Lalo’s hand wander to the gun at his waistband. Instead, Lalo's hand trails over the buttons of Nacho's shirt, upwards, over the bare skin of his collarbone and the side of his neck. Nacho doesn't move. Something cold and numb is spreading in his chest, weightless and suffocating.

"Come on, Ignacio”, Lalo’s voice is low and gentle, and it’s the soothing tone that makes Nacho wish he’d actually hit him instead, push him to the ground and take what he wants with force. But Lalo wants his cooperation, wants him to hand himself over and pretend he’s fine with it. “Undress for me."

Nacho breathes in, but his lungs are full.

Lalo doesn't move away, but watches him expectantly. He's standing so close that Nacho’s knuckles brush against Lalo’s chest as he opens his shirt slowly, button after button, to hide that his fingers are trembling. He tries to think of nothing. It’s the first time he actively wishes for his mind to swallow his thoughts, like a blank, white void.

His shoulder aches as he takes of his shirt. When he lets it drop to the floor and looks up at Lalo again, his hands moving to undo his pants despite his heart racing like a frantic, trapped thing in his chest, it feels just like positioning himself for Gus' men to take aim. His body moves on his own.

Nacho steps out of his pants, now bare-naked in front of Lalo Salamanca who’s smile softens into something more appreciative, almost warm.

He pats Nacho's cheek before caressing it. "Glad you prefer it like this - would have been a pity to ruin that pretty face”, Lalo says and kisses him right below the cheekbone. His lips are soft, but the way his mustache scratches over his skin sets Nacho’s nerves on edge. Nacho digs his fingernails into his palms.

"Ignacio”, Lalo’s voice is low against his neck and his warm breath makes Nacho shiver slightly. “Tell me what happens now."

It's not a test, it’s not even a choice.

The truth finally settles into Nacho's stomach, heavy and smothering. It doesn't matter whether he saw this coming. It never mattered. As soon as Lalo decided that he liked what he saw, this was inevitable. There's a bitter taste in Nacho's mouth. He should just resign to his fate and get this over with.

Still, something inside him is stretched thin, so thin it might give in any second as Nacho whispers hoarsely: "You fuck me."

"You really are a smart guy", Lalo laughs softly close to his ear. His mustache tickles just a little as he kisses the soft skin below Nacho's jawline, his lips appallingly warm and gentle. "Go on, lead the way, Nachito."

When they enter the bedroom, Lalo pulls the gun from its holster. Nacho has no time to react, but for one horrible split second, he thinks of the barrel of the gun pressed against his ribs again, of the rattle of his lungs filling with blood as Lalo fucks him.

“What are you waiting for, man?”, Lalo says as he walks past Nacho to put his gun on the bedside table. “Get on the bed.”

Mechanically, Nacho sits down on the bed before him, and Lalo bends over him to guide him, to slowly push him on his back with warm, firm hands. His touch is strangely foreign, and under his hands Nacho feels like he’s filled with cotton. As Nacho lies down in the mattress, he thinks of Amber, of Jo, falling back on the sheets, her breathless, shameless laugh so careless and unaffected as she wraps her legs around him to pull him closer. For a short moment, Nacho envies them. It must be nice to be too high to feel any shame, to be drugged out of his mind enough to let Lalo take what he wants and to not care at all.

Unfortunately, he’s not even slightly drunk by now. Still, he feels weirdly unsteady, like the bed beneath him is about to give in.

Looming above him, Lalo's talking softly in a way that could be soothing if it weren’t for the amused glint in his dark eyes. The words barely register as he grabs hold of Nacho's thighs and pushes his legs apart. Beneath him, Nacho is lying on his back, utterly exposed, and it’s mortifying in a way that’s paralyzing. He presses his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to hide his vulnerable self from Lalo’s invasive stare.

Slick fingers breach him and ease slowly into him, and something in the back of Nacho's mind is buzzing in a high desperate frequency, like a trapped insect trying to escape. Then, there's sound of the belt buckle opening and Lalo's hands regain their firm grip on Nacho's thighs as he pushes them back.

Nacho wants to brace himself. But just in like the long, unbearable seconds when he kept his head turned away waiting for the impact of a bullet tearing through his shoulder, his mind is both racing and completely blank.

You can't prepare for these things.

Nacho hears himself gasp and suck in air as Lalo's cock presses in, and Nacho breathes through gritted teeth, trying to ease the friction. He's slick enough that it works at least somewhat, and as Lalo slides in, he purrs his praises against Nacho's neck.

"Well done, Nachito." Lalo is so close that his low voice resonates in Nacho's chest, so close that every time Nacho inhales, he smells cologne and spices and a hint of the sweet scent of styling gel, so close it’s getting hard to breath. "Now be good for me."

The buttons of his shirt scrape against Nacho's skin when he moves, just enough to be distracting. For some reason, that's what Nacho’s brain decides to focus on, not the slick noises, not the intruding fullness chafing against his insides, not Lalo's soft groans next to his ear or his own short, shallow breaths. Nacho's hands lie slack on the sheets as he gets fucked on his ridiculously expensive king-size bed, in his barren show-off house he did not furnish himself, with more money than he’ll ever need in his safe and everything he ever wanted right at his fingertips.

Whimpers tear from his throat, but he keeps breathing, in and out, in and out, through the increasing discomfort.

He doesn't think of his father. He doesn't think of Fring. He doesn't think of every step that has led him here.

He bites his lip and breathes, only one thought on his mind: He was so stupid to think he was ever in control.

Lalo falls asleep with one arm draped over Nacho’s waist, his soft, irregular snoring close to Nacho's ear, and Nacho thinks of nothing.

When Nacho wakes up, Lalo is gone, like a bad dream.

It's disorienting at first, to lie in his own bed, alone, as if nothing happened. As he blinks into the light, his brain struggles to reconcile his thumping heart and the suffocating pressure on his ribcage with the soft, familiar sheets and the pleasantly warm morning sun. There’s no gun on the nightstand, he notices. For a moment, he lies completely still, listening for noises from the kitchen, but everything remains quiet. Nacho waits in vain for relief to settle in.

As he gets up, his neck feels stiff and the muscles in his shoulders tense and taut. But he isn’t in much pain, nothing that pain killers can’t easily get rid of. By far the worst of it is his aching jaw. Slowly, Nacho rolls his head from side to side.

All morning he feels like everything around him is slightly muted, like he's underwater. Fresh out of the shower and half-dressed, Nacho makes for the kitchen to grab a glass of water and some pain killers. His stomach turns, but he downs the whole glass anyway.

Good thing that Domingo will be there to handle the money collection - Nacho doesn't trust himself right now to stay present. Still, he knows he’ll get through the day somehow, he always does. It’s the one thing he can trust in by now – that he keeps functioning when he needs to.

When Nacho gets in his car, he receives a text from Lalo that says "come pick me up" and nothing else. Nacho's fingers close tighter around the steering wheel as he tries to swallow down the rising panic closing up his throat. It takes him a while to realize that several minutes have passed and he's still just sitting in his car, hands clenched around the steering wheel, and hasn't moved an inch. He takes a deep breath and runs his hands over his face, wiping the cold sweat from his brow.

 _It's just sex_ , he reminds himself. He's not bleeding, he's not fatally wounded, he's not about to die. Domingo is not lying beneath him, his face bloodied and swollen beyond recognition.

They've done worse. This is nothing. It really shouldn't be getting to him this much.

Nacho turns the key in the ignition.

When Nacho gets out of his car, Lalo is sitting outside on the porch in front of the house. It's a nice, bright day and in the shade of the wooden roof, Lalo reclines in his chair and smiles at him invitingly. The table before him is set for two.

Something is so fundamentally wrong with this picture, it almost feels unreal.

"There you are!", Lalo exclaims and waves him over, "Come here, Ignacio, sit."

Nacho doesn't know what he expected, but this casual cheerfulness paired with the shallow display of domesticity unsettles him more than anything else. It's like reality took a step to the side and left Nacho behind to desperately try to regain his footing.

He sits down across from Lalo as he's been told, in front of a plate with a freshly prepared tortilla with fried egg and tomatoes. The food smells rich and spicy, and Lalo smiles at him with warm bright smile that shows his teeth. It sets Nacho more on edge than a gun to his head.

"You gotta be hungry, man!", Lalo says as he chews and points to the plate. "Come on, take a bite."

The top buttons of Lalo's dark green shirt are undone, and Nacho can't help but remember them chafing ever so slightly against his chest. He tries his hardest to ignore the frantic, buzzing thing in the back of his brain that craves the visceral, overwhelming, all-encompassing pain of a bullet rupturing his insides.

Willing himself to ignore the bile rising in his throat, Nacho grits his teeth, and takes a deep breath and takes his first bite.

There's an inescapable finality to it.

He's going to strip when Lalo wants him to. He's going to get fucked when Lalo feels like it.

He's going to get on his knees when Lalo lazily spreads his legs after he's finished his plate. And when Lalo tells him to swallow, he will.

**Author's Note:**

> Been thinking about how Nacho acts around Lalo, especially towards/in the finale, how he's so on edge all the time - and then this little oneshot happened.


End file.
